The Emerald Isle entered my system long before I was lucky enough to visit the place. My high school English teacher had a thing for James Joyce. That meant my senior year was all about PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN, DUBLINERS and, as a cautionary exercise, a glimpse into ULYSSES and FINNEGAN'S WAKE. (English majors know why we only peeked. You can ask them about the all consuming madness that comes from actually reading those dense tomes).

One of the other Irish writers we read that year was James Synge. Synge wrote a play called RIDERS TO THE SEA. The story was set in the harsh terrain of the Aran Islands, three wedges of limestone off the west coast of Ireland known for penitent priests and doomed fishermen. Tragedy was a regular occurrence there, just like wind, rain and suffering. So much so, the women used unique stitching in the wool sweaters they crafted for their husbands, so they could identify their bodies when they washed ashore.

All this stuff about stitches is a myth, of course. Ireland is full of stories equal parts true and untrue. Others are just too beautiful to question. The country is so overflowing with tales it inspires outsiders to write their own. That's what happened to me. My second, serious attempt at a spec script was a romance set on those same Aran Islands. This was nearly 10 years after high school. Ireland had been brewing inside me for that long.
There soon came some interest in that spec so I used that as an excuse to finally visit the country I only knew from books. My first trip would be part business, part discovery.

I decided to land in the West. Galway. Kerry. Killarney. Dingle. This was where old traditions still lived and breathed. The Celtic and the Catholic.
Ireland was (and still is) very Catholic. That posed no problem for me. I was raised Catholic and even though I was well on my way to Atheism, I knew how to speak the lingo. Catholicism was also one of the few religions that allowed you to believe in god and monsters. This was good for the Celtic side of Ireland because there were many people who still believed in the wee folk. They actually left saucers of milk out for the odd, passing faerie. What an intriguing mix!

My first destination was Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands. The place is roughly 12 square miles. You can walk most of it in a day if you're up for the hike, but that will cheat you of such great finds. Crumbling, cliffside forts built by pagans against invaders. Stone domed huts built by priests for cramped retreats meant to test their faith in uncomfortable ways. Blatantly displayed currachs and tackle that spoke to the island's fishing history and to its one brush with cinematic fame, the Robert Flaherty “documentary” MAN OF ARAN (another Irish story that was more myth than fact).

You can actually feel the history in those places. There's a psychic residue unlike any I've felt in any other country. Possibly because Ireland, as I said before, is a land of believers. That much belief in one area is bound to create a tangible memory. Call it spirits, vibes, or neurons... you are keenly aware of this energy field and there is no immunity to it.

To broaden my first Irish experience, I chose to stay at Mainistir House, a quaint hostel with en suite rooms, international guests and one of the best vegetarian meals I have ever had. It's still there (as is the dinner), so make sure to visit. Mainistir House is a little less than half way along the island. Around it are humble homes and farmhouses. The nearest collection of pubs is a good 10 minute walk.
